We Looked Like Giants
by TomatoLullaby31
Summary: Their love was like panes of weathered glass, and Stan held tight to that fact, but not nearly as tight as he held on to Kyle. ((Its good please please read it! Its based on a Death Cab for Cutie song, name of the title. Rated T for some suggestive but not detailed sexual themes))


((Okay this is based on Death Cab for Cutie's song We Looked Like Giants, there's no beta so all mistakes are mine! i wrote this out quickly on my phone, so i dont own south park or the song, just this fic!)) Stan took in a deep breath, the sweet smell of spring time in South Park, and let himself relax on his motorbike. Spring time always brought back nostalgic memories, he could remember it so clearly, and perhaps with a possessive edge, but to be fair he has a right to think that way. He started the bike again as the light flicked to green and his mind wandered again. He remembered driving in his old grey truck up these very same mountain passes, freezing and dangerous, always worth it. He had managed to convince his boyfriend, a red headed jewish boy named Kyle, to skip his early law classes, and now he was driving them to the camping sight.  
They had parked the car half way there, Kyle removing his seat belt and crawling over to straddle Stan's lap. It was times like this that the ebony haired teen had learned so much about the way his body worked, and probably even more about Kyle's. A loud honk shook him from his thoughts and the bike swerved slightly, he regained control and pulled into his apartment's parking lot. As the roar of the engine died he took off his ink black helmet an ran a hand tiredly through his hair. Taking in the dark surroundings as he remembered the next night of that camping trip with Kyle.

Panting loudly the boy's crawled into Stan's car, their hands fumbling in the dark of the night as they tried not to wake anyone else. Stan always hated people who couldn't control themselves and yet he found himself to be the same as his blue eyes adjusted to the dark and traced the movement of his ginger haired lover removing his shirt.  
The next hours were full of sexual conquest and sleepy kissing. Stan had never felt so calm yet on edge. The widows were fogged with the warm of their lovemaking and he could vaguely make out frost on the windows as snow fell and danced in the mountain air, he pulled Kyle closer to him and closed his eyes, knowing that no one, not even Kyle could know he held him so tightly.

He watched Kyle strip for him from his place on the bed and wondered if Kyle remembered when they had looked for collages in the very same room, or when they would read ridiculous articles to one another from trash magazines they'd bought. Sometimes after sex they'd fix themselves and go down stairs and Stan swore to god his moth could just smell the guilt on him, like she knew he was hiding something from here and she didn't approve. He also swore he'd have to tell her, he wasn't good with secrets and his mother ha never given him any reason to lie about something this big.

He walked up the stairs to his dinky complex and put the key into the lock, as the door opened Stan threw his helmet on the floor and kicked the door back closed. Remembering that always made him so...remorseful. The twenty three year old grabbed a beer from the fridge and sighed softly as it hissed when opened.  
The cold of the can just kept reminding him of the frosty car windows. He put it down and moved towards the windows of the apartment, placing a hand there and noting that it too felt the same, it was dingy, weathered panes of cheap glass that just made Stan remember... He turned to where Kyle lay sleeping on the couch and sat near his arm, pulling him into his grasp. He held the jewish man tightly, closer than even Stan himself could guess was physically possible. He knew that their relationship was just like that glass, well worn and chipped, cool to the touch, but stronger than the harsh trails the weathers of life threw at them. They were just like panes of weathered glass.


End file.
